Hawkeye released the clamps.

For a terrifying, agonizing heartbeat, nothing happened. And then, a surge of crimson.

The blood rushed through Jenkins’ aorta, hitting the newly grafted tissue. The small, two-inch section of Harold’s artery bulged slightly under the immense pressure of the human pulse.

Hawkeye held his breath. Margaret leaned in so close her mask nearly touched Hawkeye’s shoulder. Potter leaned over the table.

One second. Two seconds. Three.

No leaks. Not a single drop of blood seeped through the meticulous silk sutures.

Suddenly, the monitor beside them beeped with a stronger, more regular rhythm. The gray pallor began to fade from Jenkins’ cheeks, replaced by the faintest hint of a flush.

“Pulse is strengthening,” Margaret whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “BP is rising. 100 over 60… 110 over 70.”

Hawkeye let out a breath he felt he’d been holding for a decade. His shoulders slumped, the adrenaline rapidly draining from his system, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion that made his knees buckle slightly. He grabbed the edge of the operating table to steady himself.

“He’s gonna make it,” Hawkeye rasped, stripping off his blood-soaked gloves and tossing them into a metal basin with a wet smack. “The kid is gonna make it.”

“Nice stitching, Pierce,” Potter said, a rare, genuine smile touching his lips. “You might make a decent tailor if this medicine thing doesn’t work out.”

Even Frank, standing in the corner, looked mildly impressed, though he quickly masked it with a scowl. “Well, it’s highly irregular. I’m still noting this in the official log. You can’t just treat soldiers like used cars, swapping out carburetors!”

“Frank,” Hawkeye sighed, too tired to summon his usual venom. “Do me a favor. Go outside, find a deep mud puddle, and explain your theory of medicine to it. It will care exactly as much as I do.”

“Well! I never!” Frank huffed, storming out of the OR.

Hawkeye walked over to the scrub sink. He turned on the harsh, cold water and began washing the blood from his hands. But no matter how hard he scrubbed, the metaphorical stain remained. He looked up at the small mirror above the sink. The face staring back at him was hollowed out, aged five years in the span of twenty minutes.

Later that night, the camp was dead quiet. The war had paused, as if it too needed to catch its breath.

Hawkeye sat alone in the dim light of the mess tent, staring into a tin cup of coffee that tasted like battery acid and despair. The high of saving Jenkins had faded, replaced by the haunting memory of Harold’s lifeless body being wheeled away to Graves Registration.

The canvas flap rustled, and Radar slipped inside. He was carrying two bottles of grape Nehi. He walked over and silently slid one across the table to Hawkeye.

“Thanks, Radar,” Hawkeye murmured, not looking up.

Radar sat down across from him. “How’s, uh… how’s Private Jenkins doing, sir?”

“Margaret says he woke up an hour ago. Asked for his mother and a cheeseburger. In that order. He’s stable. He’s going to Tokyo tomorrow.”

“That’s swell, Captain,” Radar smiled weakly. “You saved him. You did a miracle.”

Hawkeye finally looked up, his eyes bloodshot and weary. “Did I, Radar? I saved one kid by carving up another. I played God today. And the worst part is… I’d do it again tomorrow. Because out here, God is too busy tallying the score to actually fix anyone.”

Radar fidgeted with his cap. “Well, sir… my uncle Ed back in Ottumwa, he’s a farmer. He always says you can’t grow a new crop without tilling under the old one. It ain’t pretty, but it’s how life keeps going.”

Hawkeye let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “Farm wisdom, Radar. Always comforting. But we aren’t growing corn here. We’re harvesting boys.”

He picked up the grape Nehi, popping the cap off with his dog tags. He raised the bottle in a silent toast to the empty air.

“To Harold,” Hawkeye whispered softly into the dark tent. “Thanks for the ride.”

He took a long sip of the ridiculously sweet purple liquid. It tasted nothing like victory. It tasted exactly like survival. And in the 4077th, that was the only victory they were ever going to get.